Flying the Flag
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Sherlock has sent Mummy a gift in lieu of he and John having to suffer another St Georges day dinner. Mycroft was displeased - more so when Sherlock reveals the nature of the gift! A birthday gift for the lovely TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot. Rated T for riskiness...


**This is just a little gift fic for the talented TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot, a lovely lady, a good friend. It can be read as a stand alone, but it is also the fourth story in my Patriotverse collection, which started, surprisingly, with this very lady's birthday gift last year.**

**Nuff said - I hope you enjoy your birthday gift my lovely ;D**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own :(  
**

"How's Harry?" Sherlock asked from his horizontal position on the couch.

"What?" John and Mycroft answered simultaneously.

"Since when has my sister's welfare been of interest to you?" John looked down curiously at his flatmate, noticing the sly smile half hidden by steepled fingers.

"Not you John, I was talking to Mycroft."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and stared at his highly polished shoes. "I don't…."

"Oh! Wasn't that bloke at the Palace called Harry?"

"That 'bloke' as you call him John, is none other than the Honourable Henry Dunstan, youngest son of the Duke of Rutherland." Ice could almost be heard dripping from Mycroft's words. "One doesn't call a scion of one of England's oldest families a 'bloke'!"

"John does, obviously." In one smooth movement Sherlock sat up, placed his feet on the floor and stood up, looking his brother in the eye. "I understand you've been helping him recently."

The older Holmes bristled, and John was intrigued to see a slight blush tinting his cheeks.

"We often work together; you know full well I assist with his security issues."

"Really." Sherlock's grin almost split his face. "Security issues. Right."

John frowned. There was something he had missed (so what else was new?), and whatever it was Sherlock was going to torment his brother with it.

"How's Mummy?"

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock was notoriously mercurial at times, but this was extreme, even for him.

"I believe she is in rude health." He answered eventually.

"Can't imagine Mummy Holmes being in rude anything." John muttered, not quite under his breath.

Sherlock snickered, Mycroft frowned.

"What?" John looked at the older man innocently. "Last year she insisted I call her Mummy Holmes – I think she assumed that would distinguish her from Mum – maybe she thinks I call…."

"I'm sure she does John." Sherlock interrupted. "However, I was wondering if she got my message about the gift I was sending her, in lieu of us attending tonight's St George's day dinner."

"A gift?"

"We're not going?"

"That alright with you John?" He could see the answer in his friend's relieved expression, and turned to his brother.

"So, how is Harry, Mycroft?"

"Harry was well when I last spoke to him."

"At his office?"

"Last week, yes," Mycroft looked down his nose, sniffed, and tried to change the subject. "Now, about this gift…."

"So it wasn't you I saw leaving Harry's house on Sunday evening?"

"…"

"At about nine thirty."

"I thought you were following a lead to that series of gallery break-ins."

"I was John, my lead just happened to take me down through Adam's Row, and there I swear I saw Mycroft leaving Harry Dunstan's house."

For the first time in his life Mycroft's mind had gone blank. He stared, horrified as his younger brother crossed to lean nonchalantly against the window frame, his innocent smile causing a cold fear to clutch at Mycroft's gut.

"What have you done?" he whispered finally. "Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Actually I wanted to ask him if he'd seen anyone hanging around the Timothy Taylor Gallery – I'd heard rumour that it was to be the next target." He folded his arms across his chest. "I had no idea he had taken up oil painting. He showed me a most interesting attempt at still life….."

"Sherlock….?" John knew his flatmate well enough by now to know he'd done something that Mycroft would truly dislike. "What was the gift?"

"A painting John," Sherlock answered but his eyes remained on his brother. "Harry let me have it for a reasonable sum – I thought mummy would love it hanging in her dining room."

John spun round and stared in amazement as, with a muffled choking sound Mycroft rushed out of the flat.

Gazing out of the window at the retreating black car, Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the camera file.

"I took a photo of it, before it was sent off. Harry was most pleased that Mummy would be the recipient of his masterpiece."

Pausing as he found the required picture, he offered his phone to John.

The still life was of a man, his limbs well formed, but the slightly side on view showed the belly of a Botticelli cherub, soft and rounded. Over his left shoulder was draped a white flag with a red cross, and his face was turned to look over the right shoulder.

That face was unmistakeable, from the piercing blue eyes and red hair, to the sharp patrician nose. It was Mycroft.

"And if there had been any doubt," Sherlock chuckled, leaning against his giggling flatmate. "Then that should eradicate it completely."

He pointed to the well rounded buttock peeping out from the silken folds of the flag, and there was their irrefutable proof.

A tattoo.

A flag of St George.


End file.
